


snake in the grass

by virginianwolfsnake



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: F/F, Power Dynamics, a surprisingly significant role is given to a bottle of perfume, actresses being dramatic, book canon, er...sort of, lots of anna karenina, the opera wasn't an accident ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginianwolfsnake/pseuds/virginianwolfsnake
Summary: on a stormy night in the midst of a worsening schism, another relationship falls between the cracks.
Relationships: Beatrice Baudelaire/Esmé Squalor
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	snake in the grass

It is increasingly becoming a challenge to find an entrance to the tunnels in the City. While the tunnel beneath the Snicket house is still operational, it is becoming quite tedious to ruin a pair of shoes in the ashes every time she wishes to use it. The fountain has the same problem, Monty’s is such a long walk and would undoubtedly involve quite an argument first (never a good idea with so many trained reptiles nearby), and she has it on good authority that 667 has a very resolute doorman these days. She is fortunate that the bookstore is poorly secured in the evenings, but it is only a matter of time before its pesky volunteer owner decides to do something to change that.

The dark underground corridor provides some respite from the pouring rain and claps of thunder outside at least, which makes the task at the other end a little simpler - they have decided to board up the door and it takes some significant prying with a crowbar to ruin their handiwork.

Esmé is not known for being particularly subtle, and takes a look around once she has kicked the door and rug back into place, sure that her colourful language and violent thwacks against the wood might have drawn some attention. But, after a moment, nobody comes.

Very little in the Baudelaire mansion seems to have changed since she was last here, on that occasion much more welcome and not nearly as irritated. It is lavish but lived in, with dog-eared books on every side table and furniture arranged in what she can only assume are comfortable positions for the inhabitants rather than based on any theory of form.

The differences are in the details, as they often are. A picture on the fireplace of a bride in a simple gown and a groom in a grey morning suit takes her attention first.

It was an average wedding and that is a higher compliment than it really deserves. The vineyard made a suitable yet very uninspiring setting. It had been a challenge to stay out of the spotlight and under the radar on that spring afternoon, even in such a wide-brimmed hat, and there had been a moment of real uncertainty when the bride had arrived arm-in-arm with none other than Kit Snicket (who, as it turned out, could not do her hair properly even for an allegedly special occasion), but in the end the moment had passed without incident and she had shown herself out before the reception.

Next to it, a picture of what is certainly meant to be a baby but looks more like a wrinkled rat in a purple blanket. Perhaps she will not inherit her mother’s good looks.

A brief detour around the kitchen (she knows it isn’t here, but she would be a fool not to even _check_ their china) and then she quietly makes her way up the central staircase. She is on her way to the study, where she imagines Beatrice might spend most of her evenings bent over books, but a small sound from a room she has never looked in before catches her attention first.

It is marginally less rat and more human in person, though perhaps that is because it has grown? In any case, the child blinks up at her from its cot, wide bright eyes and blotchy cheeks, seemingly amusing itself with its soft garbled sounds. Parents do have a tendency to make their new children sound terribly exciting, and Esmé had before now suspected that they were not, but now she feels her point is proven. Violet is a mundane name, too. Flower names haven’t been _in_ for years.

When she does nothing else, Esmé’s interest is quickly sated - but before she can turn to leave, there is a flurry of movement behind her and the lightest whistle to her left as a dart flies past and embeds itself into a window frame. The stupid baby does not notice.

When she whirls around and ascertains that Beatrice does not seem to have another to throw, she finds herself genuinely amused. Beatrice is in a nightdress and gown, rich brown curls messy around her shoulders, but there is a steely look to her clenched jaw and her brow is furrowed furiously. She has scarcely ever looked so domestic or so angry, and certainly never both at the same time.

“Not the darts again, B!” Esmé laughs. “You have to admit that this is becoming a terrible habit. Even besides that, they are _out_ now.”

“Get away from her.” It seems the little joke has given Beatrice the final push she needed to cross the room, grasping her arm and tugging sharply.

“I was only saying hello - _ow_!” Esmé wrestles her arm free, but steps away from the cot and moves to linger in the doorway instead. Beatrice leans over to check over the baby, _coo_ ing and _shh_ ing as if she had been even for a second aware of the situation around her.

Apparently satisfied that precious _Violet_ is unscathed and happy, Beatrice shoves past her and gently closes the door behind them, whipping a set of keys from the pocket of her gown and locking it swiftly.

“Isn’t that a bit irresponsible?” Esmé teases, but then a sudden memory of an afternoon conversation by the lake springs to the forefront of her mind, with Beatrice’s pitying look and the way she had squeezed her hand. Esmé hadn’t known then how unwise it was to provide any personal information to the other girl.

“Oh, _grow up_ ,” she spits. “That was years ago. Besides, if I ever suffered some personal crisis that led to me deciding that I wanted one of my own, it most certainly wouldn’t be one with Baudelaire blood.”

Beatrice doesn’t even have the decency to look abashed. She locks her fingers tightly around her wrist, so hard it feels like it might bruise, and drags her down the corridor and into what appears to be a bedroom.

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s a personal call,” Esmé idly examines the vanity, picking up the perfume first to look closer. “Do you think you will ever move on from _Tabac Blond?_ ”

Secretly, she is pleased to see it. It is a reminder that some things may change, and that those may be significant, but others do not. Esmé’s keen memory links the scent to hands on waists on the pretense of rehearsal in the theatre, philosophical discussions that _should_ have been boring but were brought to life by Beatrice’s sheer enthusiasm and clandestine encounters in fitting rooms at City boutiques. It had lingered on a borrowed and returned fur stole in an unsettling way that had made her want to wear it more often and later made her want to burn it.

“It is not appropriate to break into my house,” Beatrice says the words slowly, as though this might come as new information that the other woman had never learned as a child. Her eyes shift guiltily downwards then, and her lips purse briefly. “And what you are looking for is not here.”

Fingering the plush head of a powder brush, Esmé hums. “Is your husband home?”

“No,” the former actress replies immediately, arms folded defensively across her chest. “But I am in no need of Bertrand to help me, if that is what you’re asking.”

“Rather the other way around, I would wager,” her once understudy smiles. “By the way, if you want to prevent other volunteers from dropping by, I’d suggest welding the door.”

“It is not the _volunteers_ we are concerned with preventing.”

“In that case, it would be even more prudent to weld shut the door.”

Their familiar rapport seems to have relaxed the brunette somewhat, and in response she sighs and unfolds her arms. Somehow even in her slip with her hair undone like this, she still possesses more than a hint of the siren she can be on the stage. There is a natural charisma to Beatrice that doesn’t require _Tabac Blond_ or any other oils or potions to accentuate. Esmé feels acutely aware of the sleight of hand of her carefully constructed dress, the weight of her lipstick and the stiffness of her styled curls and hates herself for it.

“I don’t have the sugar bowl.”

Esmé wonders if it is the fact that they are still standing which is causing such animosity. It seems terribly unfair that she is being treated this way when only one of them has made an attempt to hurt the other today, but to settle Beatrice’s nerves she takes a seat on the ottoman. “For God’s _sake_ , B, will you settle down? I am not looking for it. I hardly thought it was in the crib.”

It seems the admission and the subtle change of their physical positions has worked. Beatrice runs a hand through her dark hair, still eyeing her suspiciously, and then crosses to the other side of the room to stand against the window frame. The windows keep the howling winds and insistent patter of the rain quiet well enough.

“E,” Beatrice’s voice is a little milder now that she seemingly doesn’t believe she or the baby are in immediate danger, but the initial is unusual for her and it doesn’t sound right from her lips. As Esmé thinks this herself, she looks up to see Beatrice turning the same issue over in her mind, and then she meets her eyes. “ _Esmé_. Why are you here?”

Her tone leans toward genuine curiosity more than anger this time, but in some ways that makes the question more difficult to answer. There are a thousand ways to answer and many of them are half-baked and do not seem proper now that Beatrice is here physically.

“I suppose I wanted to see your new life,” she settles on in the end, setting her jaw and keeping her head high lest the statement be interpreted as an admission of some sort of weakness. This is the truth. She has been working hard to picture Beatrice in her house with her husband and her child, breaking away from what made her Beatrice in the first place, and has not had much success. She has wanted to see it with her own eyes to understand and accept it.

Beatrice shakes her head, evidently dismissing this as a flimsy excuse. “Don’t be silly. I suppose you are angry.”

“Darling, I am _furious_. But that isn’t chiefly why I am here.”

“Well, I am furious with you.” Beatrice doesn’t move, but her posture straightens as she becomes bolder. “Regardless of what happened at the opera, and regardless of how personally you have taken the sugar bowl incident, what you and the others did to Lemony is _obscene_. That you have the nerve to come here, after -”

As abrupt as a lightning strike, Esmé’s temper bursts to life. “ _Personally?_ ” she cries incredulously. “How else did you suppose I might take a _personal_ attack?”

“ _Attack_ is not the word!” Beatrice’s cheeks are flushed pink, as though the start of the fight breathes some of the life the banality of her existence has sapped away back into her starting with the face. “It wasn’t about you. I know the concept can be difficult for you to grasp.”

“It never is!” Esmé needs a moment to think before she says something too vulnerable, but she is too angry to take the time she needs. “I thought -” _that I was important to you_ , she wants to say, but _no, stop_ , _not that,_ “I -” _loved you and you betrayed me_ , her mind supplies, but _no, never that, anything but that_.

“I didn’t deserve that,” she settles on in the end.

“It isn’t about what you deserved,” Beatrice’s voice is painfully patronising. “Does anybody really get what they _deserve_ \- if only the world did work in such a way! It was about what had to be done. You would see so if you opened your eyes.”

“I don’t know why I was surprised,” Esmé snarls. “You haven’t demonstrated any ability to think about anyone but yourself in many years.”

“The irony!” Beatrice cries with a humourless laugh. “You would have done the same in my position!”

“I _wouldn’t!_ ” This one is wrenched from somewhere deep within her before she has any chance to examine whether it is appropriate or wise.

“Easy to say,” The expression on Beatrice's face is the one she reserves for those she hates the most - liars, fire-starters and bad actors - and, until now, Esmé has never been on the receiving end. “But I don’t believe it for a moment.”

In the silence that follows, Esmé wonders whether Beatrice can even remember half of the things that she can. It is the only way she can explain the chill that has come over her now. They have not always seen eye to eye, but there is a long history too- largely of laughter, the kind she doubts either of them do much of anymore. There have been wine-drunk joyful kisses on piers (and in alleyways, on bridges, in dressing rooms after curtain call), hands threaded through hair to comfort rather than to hurt, entire conversations communicated through glances. These things are rare and not to be so easily discarded.

Eyes flicking over the suit jacket strewn across the back of the chair in front of her and the child's plush toy on the shelf above the fireplace, she begins to wonder whether they are only rare for her. She cannot put any of this into words. Knowing Beatrice, she cannot help but think sadly that they would only be used to hurt her sometime later.

The pause has neutralised the venom in the atmosphere between them and Beatrice’s shoulders slump minutely as the fight drains from her. They could fight about one thing or another for hours, but Esmé has a question she has wanted to answer since the wedding that should take precedent.

“Will you be happy?” It is a small, trivial question in the world they live in and they have had lively disagreements in the past over the importance of the answer relative to doing what Beatrice would call the _right_ thing. When she does not receive a quick response, she gestures vaguely to the room. “With just this?”

“Should I bother to answer?” Beatrice has always had an infuriating way of dodging the question, but this time she sounds genuinely mournful, as if she truly cannot decide whether this conversation is worth her energy. “Will you understand?”

“I understand many things better than you give me credit for, Baudelaire.”

“I don’t mean that,” the usually graceful actress fumbles. She looks for a moment as if she will explain, but then she sighs. “It is at times like this I wish you had bothered to read Anna Karenina when I asked you.”

Esmé cannot suppress a roll of her eyes. “Not _everything_ is about Anna Karenina.”

“It would help you to contextualise it, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s too late now.”

At this, Beatrice’s eyes seek out her own and capture them in one of her meaningful looks. It would be difficult to look away if she wanted to. “It isn’t,” she says softly. “If you made an effort - I would suggest a very sincere apology to Jacques and Kit, for a start - it wouldn’t be too late for you to come back. Perhaps you could read the book after all. You have left us, not the other way around.”

“I was never one of you in the first place,” the blonde mutters, and then suddenly she realises how easily Beatrice has disarmed her. She has entered this house as the powerful, disruptive figure, and yet she finds herself here on the back foot again after a careful jibe about a book she never read. Esmé has heard stories of an optometrist who can hypnotise people, but Beatrice appears to have the same skill innately and without the need for any of the training or equipment.

“There is no _us_ to return to anyway,” she realises furiously, desperate to switch their roles back to the way she prefers. Rising from the ottoman, she stands and draws closer, primarily so that Beatrice will have no respite from having to look at her. “You are going to be too busy with your husband and your baby now. Isn’t that the plan? Murderess to simple housewife in only a little over a year?”

Beatrice flinches. It is savagely satisfying to watch.

“Is it murderess or housewife that stung?” Esmé inches closer still, glad today of her superior height and of Beatrice’s error in placing herself against a window in the first place. “Does thief have the same effect?”

Beatrice finally looks as threatened as she should have all along for a brief moment, but then she meets her eyes directly, jaw clenched. “I don’t have to listen to this,” she states, but all the same she doesn’t make any move to escape.

“Traitor?” Esmé presses, hand slithering out to brace herself against the wall at the side of her former friend’s face as she comes closer again, so close that the satiny fabric of Beatrice’s robe and the detailed beading on the bodice of her dress connect and snag. “Criminal?”

“Rich, coming from you!” Beatrice’s cheeks flush a darker pink anyway, perhaps from the indignation - but then her eyes twitch almost imperceptibly to the taller woman's lips as she wets the bottom one with the tip of her tongue. As furious as before, but thrilled too, Esmé delights in closing the remaining space between them so that their noses almost brush.

“Turncoat? Snake in the grass?”

“As relieved as I am to see that your vocabulary has improved,” the brunette snaps. “I still can’t understand how you can’t apply these terms to yourself as readily as you can to me.”

“That’s my _point,_ B.” Undeterred, her hand slips from the wall and down to Beatrice’s neck, fingertips at the back of her neck. “Don’t you ever think about that? _Hypocrite?_ ”

The word should be an insult, but it sounds reverent and honeyed directed at Beatrice. In this moment it is all normal again. The electricity is still there between them and the spot behind her ear is still sensitive. Beatrice doesn’t seem to have anything to say this time, but her eyes threaten to flutter closed with the familiar arch of her back.

“Do you remember?” Esmé smiles wickedly and feels the sigh when her fingers close around Beatrice’s hip, a familiar movement and a familiar response. “ _This_ ,” she whispers. “Is why you won’t be satisfied here.”

She is so unwaveringly certain that she has won this round, and maybe the war altogether, and so convinced that the next sensation will be Beatrice’s lips on her own, that she does not realise her own eyes have closed or fully register the press of her palm against the centre of her chest.

Beatrice’s eyes are warm, but not warm enough. “Step back.”

Such is her surprise that Esmé, unusually, does exactly as she is asked. Beatrice brushes her hand from her hip and turns her face away.

“I don’t regret what I did,” the brunette’s bright eyes are sincere. “I assume neither do you. Things have changed and they cannot be put back together as easily as you think. But,” she swallows. “I am sorry if I hurt you.”

“ _Are you?_ ” Esmé bites, but her voice breaks and loses its venom, an admission of a feeling neither of them has ever spoken out loud, but at least one of them has thought about often enough.

Before Beatrice can formulate an answer to that, she turns away to leave. On the way, she sidles near the vanity again and plucks Beatrice’s favourite perfume from its prized position. For a brief moment she fingers the tag and the texture of the label, watching the golden liquid swirl in the glass - and then, in a fluid sudden movement, she hurls it towards its owner. Beatrice moves well in time, but the bottle smashes against the sturdier window behind it.

The sound has startled the baby and the scent is overpowering. Leaving Beatrice to navigate the shards, Esmé descends the staircase to head out into the storm, calling after her: “Time for a change, then!”


End file.
